


A Little Time To Think Things Over

by The Sign of Tea (NoPlastic)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Friendships, Friends With Benefits, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Post-The Final Problem, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Acceptance, Self-Denial, Self-Destruction, Self-Discovery, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-02-04 19:15:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18610789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoPlastic/pseuds/The%20Sign%20of%20Tea
Summary: Sherlock becomes normal. His friends are worried.





	1. The Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the Foreigner song "I want to know what love is".

The bathroom mirror was fogged up with steam, so Sherlock wiped it clean with a towel to look at himself. His face – familiar and strange at once. Ever since he’d returned from that cursed island where his sister was held captive, since he’d seen his own reflection in her eyes, he wondered who that man in the mirror really was.

_Traumatized._

He hated that word. It couldn’t be all he really was, it couldn’t explain his whole personality. His entire life, if anyone had suggested that he’d become who he was because of a childhood trauma, he would have called them a bloody idiot.  
And he had, because people had suggested it.  
The therapist, for example – the one he’d been sent to when he was fifteen because the school thought he needed to be “evaluated”. Triumphantly she’d told the teachers what she thought of him, and only Sherlock knew she got it all wrong.  
When he got a little older, women were interested in him. Men were interested, too. Sometimes he let them come close, and enjoyed it at times, but then they wanted a relationship. He told them it was never going to be like that, and they didn’t understand. So they assumed there was something wrong with him.  
Even random strangers sometimes thought there had to be something wrong with him.

_“Have you been traumatized?”_

John was one of the few who had never asked this question, even though Sherlock had feared it from him the most. He had never suggested that Sherlock’s entire personality had to be a consequence of this single thing that had happened to him, or that Sherlock needed to be fixed so he could become like other people. It was one of the reasons why Sherlock loved him.

And now… this.

It hurt terribly to realize that he’d been traumatized as a little boy by the death of his best friend and the disappearance of his sister. It hurt because the memory was horrible and he wished he’d never remembered it – but it also hurt his pride. It made him question his own personality, made him doubt everything he thought he knew. Who was he if his whole life had been a lie?

The other question was if he needed to heal now. Wasn’t that usually how these things went – remembering the trauma, getting over it, and then finally leading a normal life.  
He could finally become his true self, if only he could figure out what his true self was.

A normal man.

He squinted at the mirror, trying to see himself in the new light of these ideas. His face still looked exactly the same, but in his mind the mirror was shattering, the pieces whirling like leaves around the empty space where his personality was supposed to be.

He had to admit to himself that he had no idea what a normal life was, but he thought he should try to find out. If he felt broken, perhaps he needed someone else to make him whole again. Love, love, love – that was what all the songs were about, whenever someone turned on the radio. Only love could save people. A couple was two halves of a whole. One person alone was incomplete.

So Sherlock Holmes was going to start to look for love. The love of his life – a beautiful woman, as lovely as Molly and as clever as Irene Adler. They would get married and grow old together and be happy.  
He absolutely failed to see himself in that role, as a husband, or to find anything enjoyable about the idea of a wedding, but perhaps love had the power to make these things come naturally to him. He only had to allow it to happen.

Or – perhaps his partner would be a man. Sherlock was not one of those idiots who thought two men couldn’t love each other. He tried to imagine himself marrying a man, a beautiful man as intelligent as Moriarty but less dangerous, as handsome as Lestrade and as loyal as John.  
It didn’t do anything more to Sherlock than the idea of marrying a woman. He really couldn’t tell what his preference was. But in his opinion it didn’t matter. It just had to be a normal relationship, with a normal person. Normal people were easy to find, they were everywhere, only Sherlock had to learn how to be one of them. From the pieces and fragments that he had left, he would create a whole new personality.

He didn’t expect it to be easy, but he didn’t want to think about the problems too much. He wanted to get started as soon as possible.

He splashed some water on his face, and turned around to go back to the bedroom – but then he stopped himself. A normal man wouldn’t do what Sherlock usually did at this time of day. He wouldn't walk naked back to his bedroom. He wouldn’t wrap himself in a sheet, wouldn’t spend the better part of the day lying on the sofa, waiting for something to happen that would stop him from being bored. That was not the way to start his new life.

He went back to the sink, washed his face and combed his hair.  
This was what he would do: put some decent clothes on and have breakfast in the kitchen. He would read the newspaper – not to look for interesting murders, but to see what the prime minister was doing and which celebrities had been caught dating. Or perhaps he wouldn’t even read the celebrity gossip, because real men didn’t do that. He would read the sports pages, complain about some football match or another, and frown at the stock index. That was normal behavior, he’d observed it countless times in normal people. It was easy to do.

With a smile on his face, Sherlock started to rummage in his drawers and cupboards for a towel and fresh underwear.

It felt good to have a plan.

*

“Sherlock, why are you up so early?”

He flinched at the sound of Mrs. Hudson’s voice. Against his will, he’d been engrossed in an article about a celebrity who’d been murdered under mysterious circumstances. Fascinating - but unacceptable for his new personality. Before Mrs. Hudson could look over his shoulder, he quickly flipped the pages to the sports part, and frowned appropriately at a picture of a football player scoring a goal, even though he had no idea what was going on there. _Tottenham who?_

“Did something happen? A nice murder perhaps?”

“Stop calling murders nice, Mrs. Hudson. That’s unacceptable.”

“Oh, of course! Silly me.” She chuckled and kindly refilled his cup of tea. “Very convincing impression of a gentleman, Sherlock. You could almost make me believe it. What sort of case is it that you need this new disguise for?”

“Mine,” Sherlock replied. “I’m not solving crimes. I’m solving the case of my own personality.”

“Oh.” She didn’t seem very impressed. “Well, I trust you to do the right thing.”

“I will, Mrs. Hudson. Don’t worry.”

*

Sunday morning.

Sherlock was standing in the middle of the sitting room. Thinking. Not about a case, but about the state of his flat. In his hands he was holding a giant bin bag.

It was considered normal for a bachelor’s home to be messy, within certain limits. However, books about drug addiction, criminal law, practical anatomy or forensics should probably not be lying around in the sitting room.

He picked up some of the books and decided to get rid of them. With a hollow noise they landed in the bag.

The taxidermy bat and bugs collection, a gift from one of his first clients, had to go as well. He dropped it in the bag and clenched his teeth when he heard the glass shattering.

His heart was pounding in his ears as he started to throw away one item after the other. He had expected it to hurt, because discarding all of his belongings wasn’t an easy step, but he hadn’t expected it to hurt _like this._ It felt like ripping his own heart out of his chest and dying. He was losing memories, stations of his life that these seemingly useless objects reminded him of. He was losing the comfort of the chaos he was used to. However, perhaps this was exactly what he needed. He’d thought about it for almost twenty-four hours and came to the conclusion that it was the right thing to do. Perhaps it needed to hurt, like a wound before it could heal. The old Sherlock, the traumatized child and broken adult, would go away with the things he’d owned. Without those parts of his personality he would be free.

The stack of letters.

The knife.

All the magnifying glasses.

The skull.

Gone.

Three hours later, the whole sitting room was sufficiently tidy – just enough journals and newspapers left lying around to make it look lived-in.

The bin bag was filled to the brim, the mantelpiece and the shelves almost empty.

The remaining books were now neatly sorted by color, last name of the author in alphabetical order, and year of publication in ascending order.

Sherlock hesitated.  
It was too much. He’d overdone it.

He went back to the shelf and rearranged the books, this time a little less neatly, and only sorted by the author’s last names.

Now, he was convinced, it looked normal.

Next, he would go to the bedroom and destroy his sock index, and rearrange his wardrobe to make it look like he'd never had a need to sort everything by color and brand.  
It felt strange to consider what kind of impression his bedroom would make on other people. Sherlock himself was normally the only one who used it, and he liked it the way it was, but now he was going to have a girlfriend or boyfriend. Janine had already pointed out that some of the things in his bedroom were “really crazy, Sherl”, so he had to do something about that. At least her reactions, as far as he could recall them, would give him some points of reference.

After that, he could start tidying up the bathroom. All those perfumes and hair-care products he was keeping in there, especially the ones for women that he used to train himself to recognize scents, had to be removed as soon as possible. Also most of his own excessively luxurious creams and soaps – he would need another bin bag to get rid of them. He couldn’t let his future wife or husband see the mess. What had Janine called 221b? The scuzz-dump.

“Unacceptable”, he muttered under his breath.

The kitchen was the last room on the list. How many times had Mrs. Hudson suggested he should stop experimenting in the kitchen and use the lab at St. Bart’s like a normal person? He would do that now. No more Erlenmeyer flasks on the table, no more thumbs in the fridge. Everything would be clean.


	2. Julie

Sometimes Greg Lestrade thought he’d seen everything. He’d been a cop for many years, he’d seen crimes and corpses and all sorts of strange things. But whenever he thought nothing could surprise him anymore, Sherlock Holmes waltzed in and showed him something he wouldn’t have expected in a thousand years.

Today was one of those days. As always, Greg had arrived early to be able to do some paperwork before things got crazy in the office. During his coffee break just before eight, the door was pushed open and Sherlock came in. He looked busy and impatient as ever, but something was off.

He’d changed the way he dressed. Instead of the spectacular Belstaff with the red buttonholes, he was wearing a different, rather dull coat – a more loosely fitted one in a soft tone of grey. It looked elegant, but not by far dramatic enough for him.  
It had to be one of his disguises, though Greg had no idea what purpose a dull grey coat might serve.

“Good morning!” he greeted as Sherlock stepped into the office. “What are _you_ doing here this early in the morning? And why the hell are you dressed like Columbo?”

“I have a request, Greg,” Sherlock replied, ignoring the remark on his outfit and the pop culture reference he probably didn’t understand. Getting straight to the point, as always. “I want you to give me a job.”

A job. Greg couldn’t help snorting at that.

_“Give_ you a job, now that’s a new one! What am I supposed to do, murder someone?”

“I want to adapt to a regular work schedule,” Sherlock explained. “Like a normal employee who goes to work every day.”

“A normal employee,” Lestrade echoed incredulously. _“You_ want to be normal?”

“Yes, that’s exactly the point. I’m glad you understand,” Sherlock said. He sounded genuinely relieved, which was confusing. However, as long as he wasn’t experimenting with drugs again, Greg would support his decisions, because over the years he’d learned to trust him (almost) blindly. Sometimes Greg had to put up with criticism from his superiors for working with “the weirdos”, as they liked to call them – people like Sherlock Holmes, Philip Anderson, Sally Donovan, the Watsons, Molly Hooper. But he knew that these people were all geniuses in their own way and he couldn’t do without them. Whatever was up with Sherlock this time – and Greg already felt that it would be a lot of trouble – he would support him no matter what.

“So give me a job,” Sherlock said. “Give me a desk to sit behind, give me paperwork, give me something I can apply my skills to. Unsolved cases, cold cases, theft or murder, whatever you’ve got, I’ll do anything.”

“Really anything?” Greg said with a grin. He put his cup down on the table so Sherlock could see it was empty. “New employees usually start by making me coffee.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and didn’t move an inch. Obviously he wasn’t having it.

“Seriously, Sherlock – what kind of case is it that you’re doing this for?”

“It’s not for a case.” Sherlock was starting to sound exasperated. “I already told you, I want to become normal.”

Greg didn’t believe a word that he said – _of course_ this was for a case, there was simply no other explanation. With Sherlock, everything was always for a case.

“Part of me thinks you’re either high or ill,” Greg joked. “Or you’ve finally lost your marbles just like Anderson. But then again – when you request something, it’s usually important and worth listening to, even if it doesn’t make sense to me at first. So before we waste our time discussing this back and forth all morning, let’s just get to it.”

“Finally!”

“Yeah, I just need some more information from you, Sherlock. What exactly are you looking for? I mean, we have hundreds of cases, but I’m afraid they’re not the sort of cases you’re usually interested in.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock said. “I’ll even take a theft or a burglary. Just give me something. Anything.”

“Even if it’s less than a seven?”

“Even if it’s less than a _one.”_

Greg huffed out a laugh, but Sherlock didn’t seem to think it was funny.

“Sherlock, if you start working here and I tell you what to do, isn’t that rather the opposite of the purpose of being a _consulting_ detective?”

Sherlock grimaced and shook his head, as if his preferred job title was suddenly insulting to him. Greg felt more confused by his behavior by the second.

“I’m a private detective, Lestrade. A consulting detective never existed.”

Greg gaped at him. For a moment he thought he had misheard – it was impossible that Sherlock had really just said that.

“It’s not an official job title at all,” he added. “I made it up.”

Greg could hear in Sherlock’s voice that it hurt him terribly to say that. It hurt Greg terribly to hear it, too.

“Listen, Sherlock. If something’s wrong, if you or John or Mycroft need help in any way, you know you can always talk to me, okay?”

“Okay. I am talking to you, and you can help me by giving me a job, just like I asked.”

“I could do that,” Lestrade said with a sigh. He knew Sherlock was never going to tell him what was going on as long as he didn’t want to. So he just had to wait. He knew he would find out sooner or later. Until then it was probably for the best to have Sherlock nearby, under supervision, so to say.

“Alright,” he said. “We can place you at the volunteer desk in the basement for now. Julie, the secretary, will give you some old files you can take a look at.”

*

A normal workday seemed difficult to sit through for the first two hours. Then it felt absolutely unbearable for another two hours. And after that it became pure torture.

Nevertheless, Sherlock was determined to learn to cope with it like everybody else did. With the intensity and precision of a laser, he focused all of his mental energy on the work to keep himself occupied. Even though most of the work was mind-numbingly trivial.  
He’d solved eleven minor cases by midday. None of them were the kind of stuff that would usually interest him, but he forced himself to keep going, and the secretary kept bringing him more.

“At this rate we’ll have run out of files soon,” she said, smiling politely as she dropped another stack of heavy folders on his desk.

Sherlock smiled back at her. _Be nice to Julie,_ Lestrade had warned him in a very serious tone, with a stern look on his face. There was something about her – something important that Sherlock could probably deduce if he tried, but right now he was just too busy solving these terribly boring cases.

“And what am I going to do then, once you’ve run out?” he asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. I think they should promote you from a volunteer to a proper policeman. You’re doing such good work, you deserve a real job and proper payment, and I’m sure they’ll want to keep you. Well, and then, depending on which department they put you with –“

Sherlock missed the rest of her reply because he was puzzled by the idea of getting _paid_ on a regular basis for solving cases. Of course his clients had usually paid him as well if they could – sometimes big amounts of money, sometimes just a symbolic small sum if they thought they couldn’t afford his help but wanted to give something anyway. John and Mycroft always worried about his finances. He loathed their meddling, especially Mycroft’s, but he knew without them he would have lost track of his bank balance long ago. He’d been there before. He just didn’t care enough about money. He knew he needed at least a little of it to survive; but too often he didn’t even care enough about surviving.

“By the way, it’s time for the midday break,” Julie was saying when Sherlock managed to concentrate on her words again.

She picked up her handbag from behind her own desk.

“I’m going to the canteen,” she said. “They’re serving pasta today. It’s usually quite good. Do you want to come along?”

*

It turned out that midday breaks were even worse than the rest of the workday. The canteen was full of people. There was so much noise. There was nothing to do but standing in line for one’s food, like a schoolboy, and it took so long and it was so dull. Sherlock could only hope he wouldn’t be expected to make small talk with a group of strangers at the table.

Fortunately Julie was there. Julie understood. She seemed to sense that Sherlock was struggling, and gave him some gentle directions where to go and what to say and where to sit, found a table for two for them, and did most of the talking that was necessary to avoid awkward silences.

“I like you,” Sherlock said to her after lunch, while they were walking back to their little basement office side by side.

“I like you, too.” she said. She looked embarrassed, blushing a little and playing nervously with her hair. Too late it occurred to Sherlock that it was possible that she thought he was flirting with her.  
But then again – wasn’t he going to look for a girlfriend anyway? It was exactly what he was planning. And why shouldn’t it be Julie? He genuinely thought she was one of the nicest people he’d ever met. So maybe some actual flirting couldn’t hurt.

“Have you ever been to the morgue at St. Bart’s?” he asked. “I have access to all of the rooms. I could show you around if you want.”

He lowered his voice to a whisper.

“Where they do the autopsies.”

Julie looked a little shocked for a moment, as people usually did when he talked about the mortuary, but then she giggled.

“Oh, Sherlock. The morgue of all things! Is this your way of saying… I mean, are you trying to ask me out?”

“Maybe.”

He started to feel a little insecure, and hoped it wasn’t showing on his face. He wasn’t even sure what he was doing.

“Um, actually… I mean, thank you for - for being interested, but…” Julie stuttered, struggling for words, and Sherlock realized he’d caught her off guard without meaning to. He’d been so caught up in his own thoughts that he’d forgotten to consider her feelings. He knew he had a tendency to hurt people - it wasn't always accidental, and even if it was, he didn't always feel bad about it; but this time he felt ashamed of himself.

There was something about Julie – he’d noticed it before, but it wasn’t so easy to deduce, because she was hiding it well. There was the way she flinched sometimes when she heard someone yelling, much like Mrs. Hudson did. She’d been a victim of violence. Domestic violence probably. Not long ago. That was why Lestrade had warned Sherlock to be nice to her.  
And now he’d been _too_ nice. 

“I’m not really going on dates right now,” she said shyly. “I’ve been through some bad times.”

“Sorry,” he said. It sounded dumb, but he couldn’t think of anything better. “That was stupid. I was stupid. I wasn’t paying attention.”

“It’s okay,” Julie said. To his surprise she didn’t look angry at all. “We can be friends if you want. I’d like to be friends with you.”

For some strange reason, these words sent a wave of warmth through him, while the idea of a romantic date with her had left him rather cold. Being friends was at least something he was familiar with, and had often enough managed not to fuck up completely.  
Julie really didn’t make it hard to like her.

“That’s even better,” he blurted out. “I’m probably gay anyway.”

“No problem.” Julie laughed, and the awkward tension between them was gone. “You know, if I date at all, then it’s usually women. Not even sure if I like men at all. We would have been a funny couple.”

“I can still take you to the mortuary if you want,” Sherlock offered.

It didn’t happen often that he wanted to spend time with someone outside of work, but Julie was one of those people.

“Sorry, but no,” she said. “Looking at dead bodies is not really my thing. Can we go somewhere else instead? Maybe a museum?”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “Museums are fine. More than fine.”

*

“Oh, wow,” Julie said as she looked up at the huge dinosaur skeleton in the Natural History Museum.

Sherlock loved being here. The atmosphere had a soothing effect on him, and he enjoyed filling his brain with all the useless facts from the descriptions of the exhibits. Often enough it had saved him from doing other things – much less healthy things – to distract himself from boredom or to calm the noise in his head. He usually deleted all the information from his mind palace right after leaving the museum, but even now he still remembered enough to impress Julie with his knowledge of random facts about prehistoric species. She was easily impressed, and showing off was something he could never resist.

“It’s a _Diplodocus,”_ Sherlock heard himself saying in a tone as if he owned the museum. “These dinosaurs could get as big as four elephants, and they fed on nothing but leaves.”

“Incredible!”

Perhaps Julie wasn’t even so easily impressed. Perhaps she just genuinely liked him – or at least the new man he was trying to become.

“I want to see the human evolution section next,” she said. “I heard they have some incredible stuff there.”

“Absolutely,” Sherlock said. “It’s on the second floor. Let’s go.”

“Do you have anything planned for the weekend?” she asked as they walked up the stairs.

Sherlock hesitated. What did people normally do during the weekends? Lestrade often went to the pub, or to football matches. During the day people usually did the shopping or cleaned their apartments. _Dull._ Sherlock wasn’t sure if he could force himself to do any of that. It would be hard.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“I’m going out with some of my friends Friday night. Do you want to come along?” Julie asked. “The Unicorn Bar is doing an 80’s special. You know, neon colors and synth pop. It’ll be fun, and I’m sure you could meet someone there.”

“Someone?” Sherlock had no idea who she was talking about.

“Yes, you know, someone to go out with. Someone who’s really your type.”

“Oh.”

*

John was woken up from a nap by the buzzing of his phone. As always, when he was only half awake, he thought it was Mary, and then his whole world collapsed once more as he remembered the truth.

“Hello, John, it’s Greg,” he heard the DI’s voice when he picked it up. “How are you?”

“Fine,” John said. “Just – the weekend was hard. Rosie had a fever and cried all day and night. I’m still exhausted.”

“Oh, no. Nothing serious, I hope?”

“No, she’s already getting better,” John said. He smiled and glanced over at Rosie’s little bed, where she was sleeping soundly.

“I’m sorry for waking you up,” Greg said.

“No problem. I was going to make myself some tea anyway.” John struggled to his feet and stretched. “Why are you calling? Is it about Sherlock?”

“Yes. Have you seen him lately?”

“Last Friday,” John yawned, rubbing his eyes.

“Is he alright?”

Greg sounded worried.

“Still recovering from Sherrinford, but otherwise I think he was okay,” John replied.

“Are you sure? He showed up here early this morning with all sorts of strange requests. Do you know if he’s working on a case or something?”

“Not that I know of,” John said. “But you know how he can be sometimes.”

“Yes, of course. God knows he can be really strange. I just… had a weird feeling about it this time. Probably it’s nothing.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” John promised. 

“Thanks.” Lestrade seemed relieved that John was taking his concerns seriously. An alarming sign. “I’ll look out for him, too.”


	3. Collin

Pink and white LEDs in the shape of a unicorn glowed above the door to the club Julie had invited Sherlock to. He could feel the beat of the music even before he entered. It felt like it drew him in and carried him inside, where everything was covered in glitter and even the drinks came in neon colors. The music went from catchy to dramatic and back, filling his ears, flooding his body and mind. As Sherlock became a part of the crowd, he found himself closing his eyes and inevitably delving into old memories.

He was suddenly eight years old, and the music came from the radio in a car that was driving him to Musgrave Hall. He stared through the window into the forests and fields and imagined them full of pirates and dragons.

He switched back to reality, opened his eyes and wondered if any of his childhood memories were even real. The thought that just everything, absolutely everything might be a lie made him shiver, so he tried to stop thinking about it.

He watched people dancing around him, chatting with each other and taking pictures with their phones. In his memory he was now 21 years old, hanging out in a club very similar to this one, but smaller and seedier. The air was thick with smoke and no one took pictures, but the music was almost the same.  
There was the cocaine dealer, there was the gaunt boy who killed himself a year later, and the man with the ferret face who came to the club every night.  
Sherlock saw himself standing in the shadows like a strange kind of nocturnal crow, not quite high enough to enjoy anything. He’d been beaten up by a group of men that day and was trying not to show that he was still in pain. It was two nights before he officially helped the police solve a murder for the first time, and four years before Mycroft had him taken to the clinic.

He shook his head and forced himself to come back to the present again, slightly dizzy under the strobe lights. He remembered how arrogant he’d been as a young man, and how proud of his otherness. He wondered if his childhood trauma was what had made him like that. If Victor had still been alive, they could have gone to school together and become like all the others. Through his best friend he would have made other friends, like any normal boy. He wouldn’t have been beaten up, wouldn’t have been alone, he would have been respected and accepted. While he grew up, while he went through his first relationships and break-ups, while he was finding a job and a place to live in, Victor would have been by his side. Everything would have been normal.    
Sherlock had never looked at his past in this way before, but now he realized how much he missed what he never had. He tried to remember Victor’s face, tried to imagine him as an adult. It was impossible.

He shook off the memories once more and started to push his way through the crowd.

Julie had texted that she would wait for him at the bar. It was difficult to find her in the dim light between all the other people. Eventually he saw her waving at him. She was obviously happy to see him, and greeted him with a big hug.

“Oh, Sherlock, I’m so glad you came!” she said, and started to introduce him to her friends.

They were a group of women between 20 and 50, most of them with piercings and tattoos or eccentric haircuts. Sherlock found them vaguely annoying and forgot most of their names right away.

“This is Sherlock, the new colleague I told you about,” Julie said. “He’s a real genius. He can read everything about you from a hair on your sleeve or from the mud on your shoes. So watch out!”

“Really everything?” one of her friends asked.

Sherlock nodded.

“Woah! So you’re like, the man who knows what we did last summer!”

The others laughed. Sherlock gritted his teeth.

“Can you do a deduction for us?” Julie asked.

He was tempted to do it. He could have deduced all of her friends thoroughly in front of everyone, told them all about their love affairs, their relationship issues and bad habits. But he’d resolved to be polite, and the last thing he wanted was to ruin the party for Julie, so he bit his tongue.

“Not now,” he said. “We’re not at work, are we? I don’t want to be a bore who talks about his job all the time.”

“You’re right,” Julie said. “We’re here to forget about work. Party time!”

Her friends cheered. Someone returned from the bar with a round of strange blue cocktails that tasted like pineapples and cream. Sherlock tried to make small talk with Julie’s friends, but it was incredibly difficult because he had very little practice. He knew how to _pretend_ to do small talk, when he was in disguise for a case, but he had no idea how to talk to people when he was just being himself. He tried to see it as an opportunity to learn, but after fifteen minutes it was grating on his nerves so much it nearly gave him a headache.  
The worst part began when they asked him if he was single. He made the mistake of admitting that he was looking for someone. The women immediately offered to help, and started to point out random people he was supposed to like. They always claimed there was a reason. _Over there, she’s looking at you!_ _He just smiled at you, clearly he’s interested!_ Somehow Sherlock could never see any of that. Either these women had deduction skills way beyond his own, or they were just making things up.

“What about that one?”

Sandra (if Sherlock remembered her name correctly) pointed at a tall, bearded man at the other end of the bar.

“He’s been staring at you for a whole minute!”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock said for what felt like the hundredth time. “He’s not even looking in my general direction.”

“Oh, come on, just give it a try! Talk to him at least.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Not my type.”

“No one’s your type, it seems,” Sandra said, throwing up her hands. “You really should listen to my advice, you know. I’m an expert when it comes to flirting. Just do as I say, and you’ll have the hottest date of your life.”

“Perhaps he’s just shy,” suggested another one from Julie’s clique whose name Sherlock couldn’t remember. “He ignores all the cute boys and girls because he’s afraid to talk to them.”

“You’re right.” Sandra grinned. “It’s no problem if you’re shy, Sherlock. Really. I could talk to someone for you if you want. You just -”

“No thanks, Sandra. I’ve had enough,” Sherlock replied, and turned to walk away.  

“No, no, no.” She grabbed his shoulder to stop him. “Come on, don’t be like that. The party hasn’t even started yet!”

She was right, it hadn’t even started. Sherlock had been here for less than an hour, but he already wanted to go home. Even at the bar, it got more crowded and louder by the minute. His sensitive ears and eyes were taking in way too much information. He needed a quiet place to recover, or at least a good distraction, but nothing like that was in sight. He wished he could have John by his side like in the stag night, so they could sit in a corner and avoid people together and be entertained by each other’s silly habits.

“Hey, girls,” Julie chimed in.

She’d been involved in a discussion with someone else for a while, and Sherlock was glad when she came back. She was the only one he really knew and liked here.

“Stop trying to take Sherlock away from me,” she joked. “Actually, he mostly came here to dance with me. Didn’t you, Sherlock?”                                                                                                                                        

When she saw him smiling in response, she took his hand and pulled him towards the dance floor without waiting for an answer.

Julie wasn’t a great dancer, but good enough to keep Sherlock entertained. She also knew the lyrics to all of the songs and actually had a decent singing voice. It was fun just to see how much she was enjoying herself.  
It had been ages since Sherlock had last danced like this – in a club, under the strobe lights, fast and sweaty. At first he was awkward, but after a while his body remembered the moves. He was mentally teleported back to his early twenties again, but this time in a positive way that made him forget all the bad things.

After six or seven songs, Julie decided she had danced enough and wanted another drink. Sherlock followed her back to the bar, even though he would have preferred to stay away. Fortunately Sandra had found someone else to talk to – it seemed to be some kind of political discussion – and had lost interest in Sherlock.

He didn’t try to follow any of the conversations. Someone gave him a cocktail that was as pink as a flamingo and decorated with fruits and a paper umbrella. It dulled his senses just enough to make him feel a little more relaxed, but the mixture of boredom and sensory overload, combined with the pressure to socialize, was still driving him mad. The longer he stayed, the more he wanted to run away and hide in the comfortable silence of 221b.

While he was trying to come up with an excuse to leave early, a man joined Julie’s friend group and was welcomed warmly by the others. He had to be about Sherlock’s age but was trying (and partly succeeding) to look younger. He was tall and thin but athletic, dressed in a leather outfit that looked like a costume out of an old music video, with only a belt strapped across his bare chest. In combination with his eyeliner, he looked like a member of an eccentric pop band.

“Oh, I’m so glad you made it!” Julie said and embraced him in the same way she’d hugged Sherlock before. “Look, this is Sherlock Holmes, my new friend from work!”

Sherlock put his drink down and shook the man’s hand.

“Hello,” he said, forcing himself to smile and still hoping to get away as soon as possible.

“Hi, I’m Collin,” the man said. “I just saw you dancing with Julie. You’re good! Though I think I could show you some better moves."

He gestured towards the dancefloor.

"If you like.”

Sherlock wasn't exactly happy to interact with another stranger, but he decided to accept the challenge anyway. Dancing was one of the few things, apart from crime solving, that he enjoyed and knew he was good at. So he nodded and followed Collin back to the dancefloor. But before Sherlock could even begin to show off his own dancing skills, Collin whirled around and did a couple of truly impressive ballet-like pirouettes, ending with a cool pose on his toes.

“Oh,” was all Sherlock could say.

“That was good for a start, wasn’t it?” Colin laughed. “Ha, don’t worry, I can also do normal. I’m a professional dancer, I know you can’t keep up with me.”

“Good to know,” Sherlock acknowledged. He wasn’t used to situations like this where he was not in the spotlight and was actually baffled by somebody else’s skills.

“I don’t actually want to teach you my moves, that was just a joke,” Collin added with a boyish grin. “Or perhaps an excuse to get to know you better.”

He took Sherlock’s arms and guided him gently into a different kind of dance that wasn’t impossible for mere mortals to do.

“So what do you do, Sherlock Holmes? I feel like I’ve seen you before.”

“I work for Scotland Yard,” Sherlock answered. “I used to be a private detective, but now I’m switching to a regular office job.”

“Private detective.” Collin raised his eyebrows. “Sexy.”

To his own surprise, Sherlock found himself reacting to Collin’s attention. Finding people attractive was usually something that happened in the back of his mind while he was busy with other things, but there were a few exceptions – Irene Adler, for example. Although even then it wasn’t very physical. Sex could be fun, but finding a partner was too much effort and interfered with his work. Only when he was younger, he had experimented with partners and tried anything adventurous enough to keep him interested; but those relationships had always been messy and complicated. Too often he could not be what his partner wanted him to be. If it wasn’t his weirdness in bed that freaked them out, it was his lack of interest in becoming a part of their dull lives and staying with them forever. They said it made them feel like he didn’t love them the way they loved him, and they were probably right. Later, as an adult, he lost interest entirely, since he had so many more important things to do. Sometimes he hated living alone; but then John had moved into 221b, and his company was enough.

It occurred to him that in this new life he was beginning, in which he had regular working hours and didn’t constantly have to focus on his work, sexual activities wouldn’t interfere with his job anymore. If he just opened his mind to new experiences, perhaps he would even find them interesting again.  
With this realization in mind, he looked at Collin in a different way, tingling with excitement, ideas of a sexual nature forming in his mind. His mind, great as it was, could be very creative.

“You think it’s sexy?” he asked, aiming for a flirtatious tone but failing entirely. Totally out of practice, it came out very tame and shy.

“Well, I –.” Collin glanced away nervously and bit his lip. “Kind of. I mean, yes.”

He gave Sherlock another one of his wonderful bright smiles, causing a pleasant shiver.

“Okay, I think you’re hot.”

Sherlock grinned back at him, and they continued to dance, closer and closer. Sherlock was obviously insecure, but Collin gave him as much time as he needed to adjust. He ended up with his back against Sherlock, who put his arms around him and held him close.  
Naked skin was something he hadn’t felt under his hands in a very long time, at least not outside of work, not the warm skin of a man who leaned into his touch.

“I don’t really do this, you know?” Sherlock murmured into Collin’s ear. “I mean, normally.”

“You don’t do – what?” Colin glanced up, and lifted his hand to touch Sherlock’s cheek.

“I don’t have sex,” Sherlock replied. “Haven’t had any in the last fifteen years.”

Collin’s eyes widened, and he took a step back. He looked shocked for a moment. Sherlock was used to this reaction, and he braced himself for the questions that would inevitably follow.  
_You don’t have sex? How is that even possible? Are you always alone? Doesn’t it make you sad? Why are you like this? Don’t you have any feelings? What’s wrong with you?_  
And in fact there was so much wrong with Sherlock he couldn’t even begin to explain.

“I don’t even really like sex,” he said. “Unless –“

He let his eyes wander up and down Collin’s leather outfit.

“Unless?” Collin said breathlessly. His expression changed; he looked curious, but also frightened of what Sherlock might say.

“It depends what you like,” Sherlock said. “It’s… probably not what you’re used to.”

Once again he braced himself for a negative reaction – shock, embarrassment, a quick change of topic or a sudden excuse to leave. But instead Collin grinned, relieved and a little devilish.

“Oh,” he said. “You would be surprised what I’m used to.”

An hour later, Sherlock had forgotten about his plans for a quiet night at home. His mind was mostly busy processing the sensations of Collin’s body pressing against his own as they were dancing, their arms wrapped around each other. He could feel Collin’s muscles as he was moving, could smell his sweat, could count the tiny freckles on his shoulders. It was arousing in a sensual way, not quite sexual. Yet. He was still unsure if it was a good idea to allow himself these feelings.

“Do you live alone?”

Collin’s voice was soft and very close to Sherlock’s ear. It did strange things to Sherlock’s mind and body.

“I used to have a flatmate, but he moved out years ago,” Sherlock answered. “I was… absent for a while, and then he got married.”

The memory of the time when he shared 221b with John was one of the best of his life, and the loss of it was still a painful sting in his heart.

“I don’t like living on my own, but I have to.”

He thought about asking Collin to come home with him, but realized he wasn’t ready to have anyone in 221b, not even for a single night. All the wounds were still too fresh.

“I understand,” Collin said.

_Nonsense,_ Sherlock thought – Collin didn’t understand anything –, but he stopped himself from saying it out loud.

“Have I told you I have a flatmate, too?” Collin asked.

Sherlock shook his head, although he had of course deduced it already.

“He’s in Spain over the weekend, visiting his family. I have the whole apartment to myself tonight. That’s why I came here. I hate being alone, too, you know.”

 “So… Were you just planning to stay here and dance all night?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, I was,” Colin said. “But since I met you I was starting to hope you would come home with me.”

He stepped back a little, and they stared at each other. Sherlock remained silent.

“I wonder what you could deduce about my bed,” Colin added and winked at Sherlock in such a salacious way that they both burst out laughing. That finally broke the ice.

“Are you sure you want to know?” Sherlock said, still trying to catch his breath. “Aren’t you afraid to share your bedroom with a sociopath?”

“Not afraid at all.”

*

It turned out Collin was not afraid of anything in the bedroom. The only one who was afraid was Sherlock himself – afraid of telling Collin what he wanted, afraid of showing too much of himself, afraid of emotions.

It took the whole night before he was finally able to give up control and enjoyed it.

“Oh, I would never have thought you were into _this,_ too,” Collin commented on some of his weirder preferences. “But I’m glad. I never thought I would find anyone.”

*

Hours later, Sherlock lay on his side in the absolute mess they’d made of the bed. Hot and bright images of what he’d done with Collin kept flashing through his mind.

_You’re just the kind of freak the world needs, darling._

The words kept echoing in his ears.

He turned away from Collin, who was now fast asleep, and stared out of the window. His head was spinning, his limbs felt weak and heavy. He could see a little of the night sky and the stars. Soon they would vanish in the light of the early morning, and the city would come back to life. He’d seen the transition from night to morning so many times. So many sleepless nights; but most of them he’d spent alone.

Collin mumbled something in his sleep and snored softly. Sherlock felt an overwhelming urge to take him in his arms, to hold him and hold onto him, to feel that warm breath on his skin again. He wondered briefly if that was love. He had no idea how it was supposed to feel. All he wanted was to run away.

Trying to make as little noise as possible, he sat up on the edge of the bed. Now that it was over, he felt vaguely disgusted with himself for what he had done. He realized he’d lost control, reverted to old bad habits. Sex as a pastime, an adventure, a way to learn just how far he could go and how weird he could be, seeking the thrill – that was exactly what he’d done as a dysfunctional teenager. It was not what he wanted in his new life, where he was trying to be normal. This night only showed that he still hadn't found his way. He had to try harder.

Careful not to wake Collin, he stood up from the bed and put his clothes on, flinching occasionally because moving still hurt in certain places and he was covered in at least three different sorts of body fluids that made the fabric stick to his skin.

He picked his shoes up but didn’t put them on. On tiptoes he walked out of the room. At the door he found himself hesitating, and turned around again. The sight of Collin’s naked body under the moonlight was pretty, but it also made Sherlock feel sorry for him. So thin and fragile and all alone. He had to be cold.

Sherlock glanced around and found a blanket under the foot of the bed, neatly folded. He picked it up and draped it carefully over the sleeping man.

“Goodbye, Collin,” he murmured. “I’m sorry you’ll wake up alone, but I have to leave before you can see what I’m really like.”

When he stepped outside, the city was eerily quiet for a moment, like a different dimension where it was not constantly busy and full of people. Then Sherlock turned a corner, saw a few cars driving by, and the usual background noise of London came back.

It was a good thing that it was still dark, so no one would see Sherlock in this state. His curls were a tangled mess, his skin burning, and a thousand thoughts at once rushing through his head.

He made it to the river, where he stopped and gripped the handrail. He needed something solid to hold on to, to stop himself from drifting. It felt cold under his hands. The air was bitterly cold as well, so cold he could feel the warmth of his own breath. He stepped back and hid his hands in his coat pockets. Automatically his fingers began to search for his lighter and cigarettes.

He stared into the distance, feeling nothing but disappointment in himself and, somewhere underneath, the old familiar sting of shame.

_Stupid boy._

That was Mycroft’s voice in his head.

_You’ve done it again! What’s next – another bender, another dosshouse to hide in? Do I have to drag you out of it again? You’ll never learn._

Instead of his cigarettes – which were probably still in his old coat – he found his name tag from work in his pocket. It consisted of a little piece of cardboard in a plastic holder that he often fiddled with when he was nervous. His name was printed on it in black capital letters.

SHERLOCK HOLMES.

It was hardly a surprise he'd turned out a freak with that name. If he was going to change himself as a person, he decided, he had to change his name as well.

In his other pocket there was a pen – an official New Scotland Yard pen that he’d stolen from work because he liked it. He took the cardboard piece out of the holder, turned it around and scribbled WILLIAM HOLMES on the back. His handwriting was a little shaky, but it would do.

No more clubs, no more nights with people like Collin. The good William didn’t do those things, because he was a perfectly normal man.  
And if it didn’t work with William, he could still try again as Scott.


End file.
